


was i ever more than something on your mind?

by etherealvaleska



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arkham Asylum, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Gotham AU, Jealousy, M/M, Slow Burn, bruce is a prison guard at arkham, bruce is an adult, bruce is conflicted, everyone is in love with bruce, jerome is an arkham inmate, jerome is jealous of jeremiah, no twincest nasties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:01:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealvaleska/pseuds/etherealvaleska
Summary: Bruce Wayne starts his new job as a guard at Arkham Asylum, where he reunites with Jerome Valeska. He knows he should hate the redhead, but there's something so captivating about the deranged inmate. And before he knows it, he's helping the maniac escape to find his twin brother, Jeremiah. With two Valeska brothers on the loose, Gotham never even stood a chance...i try to update twice a week, sometimes more if the chapters are short. and yes, the first two chapters are a little slow, but it'll get more exciting very soon...





	1. Welcome to Arkham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce goes to Arkham to prove he can take on the job. However, he realizes that he might have gotten more than he bargained for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so my computer is being weird and it’s not letting me indent any of my paragraphs so i apologize i’ll try to figure this out before i put up chapter two:)

The asylum gate buzzed open, admitting Bruce into the warden’s office. The warden was an elderly man with deep circles under his eyes. He gestured towards one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk with one withered arm. “Please, have a seat.” Bruce obliged, straightening his spine nervously. “Bruce Wayne, correct?” the warden asked as he shuffled through stacks of paper.

“Yes, that’s me,” Bruce answered.

The warden held out his hand. “My name is Dr. Patrick Wilberson. Pleasure to meet you.”

Bruce shook his hand. The man’s grip was surprisingly firm for his age, and his gray eyes observed Bruce with a shrewd clarity that was quite unusual. “You as well.”

“So, Bruce,” Dr. Wilberson began. “I’ll admit, I was surprised to get you application for the job. With your considerable resources, I wouldn’t have expected you to turn to a career like this.”

Bruce smiled. “I surprised myself as well. But this is what I want to do.”

The warden laughed humorlessly. “Most people turn to jobs at Arkham because they have nothing else, not because they want to. Even I didn’t intend on taking this position. It seemed too big of a responsibility to bear.”

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve just wanted to help people.” Bruce raised his chin. “And I know Arkham Asylum has a long history of corruption and neglect. If I can change that, help even one inmate find some semblance of serenity, it will be worth it.”

Dr. Wilberson nodded approvingly. “I appreciate the sentiment, Bruce, I really do. I just have to wonder if your mind will be changed once you see how the conditions in the asylum really are.”

Bruce shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

The old warden stood up and tossed his pen down on top of Bruce’s application papers. “Come. I’ll show you around the facility.”

Bruce got to his feet and followed the old man back out through the loudly buzzing gate. They walked past the front security desk, where a tired middle-aged man nodded them into the main atrium.

“Arkham is separated into two major buildings,” Dr. Wilberson began explaining. “The first, the East Wing, is where the low-security residents are housed. These are the elderly, the simple, and the ones that are too far gone in their condition to cause any trouble. As you can guess, that’s where most guards like to be stationed. However, I’ll be taking you through the West Wing, which is dangerously short staffed.”

Bruce nodded. They started to walk down a long linoleum hallway, which split in two different directions in the distance. “Who is housed in the West Wing?” Bruce asked, even though he knew he could guess the answer.

“Those are the violent criminals,” the warden said grimly. “The psychopaths, sociopaths, serial killers, cannibals, and rapists. The worst of Gotham. I’ll never understand why the previous wardens decided to house them all together. Every notable killer you’ve seen on the news is in the West Wing.”

“I thought killers were taken to Blackgate,” Bruce mentioned.

“In any other city, they would. But this is Gotham, and our murderers would eat the other prisoners for lunch.” He smiled wryly. “In a few cases, that could be taken quite literally.”

Bruce shivered at the thought.

They turned left at the end of the hallway, where the floor changed from linoleum to dark gray tiles. A final prison gate occupied the space, a stark reminder to Bruce of where he was. It buzzed loudly and slid open, grating along the floor. Dr. Wilberson stepped through confidently, gesturing for Bruce to follow. As soon as he did, he could tell there was something…  _ off _ about the place. The air thickened around him, as if the air was saturated with insanity. Goosebumps erupted down his arms.

“Gives me the creeps every time,” Dr. Wilberson offered. “This wing, it has a life of its own. You can feel it.”

Without any further explanation to his ominous statement, the warden started walking, pressing the button for the gate to close. The locking mechanism clicked, sending another round of chills down Bruce’s back. He hurried after Dr. Wilberson, not wanting to be left behind.

“On the right will be Dining Hall A,” the warden announced. Bruce could hear the sounds of talking and giggling. Someone was crying. “This is where our Level Two residents eat and commune. These are the lowest of the high-security residents.”

They turned around the corner to the dining hall. It was a large room with sets of round lunch tables that had inmates in striped jumpsuits huddled around them. Classical music drifted out of a record player in the corner. Some of the inmates sat, rocking back and forth and muttering to themselves, while others walked around the room, arguing with someone no one else could see. A brawny man was crying with his head in his hands. Two women were dancing near the record player, hands fluttering through the air like butterflies. It was an eerie sight.

“Level Two inmates are the easiest to handle,” the warden said. “They’re all so lost that there’s nothing to be done for them. They can’t escape, they don’t even want to. They hardly ever hurt each other, and if they do, it is almost immediately forgotten.” Dr. Wilberson smiled. “The only reason they’re in the West Wing is because they’re so nice, it’s easy to forget what they’ve done.” He pointed at one of the women dancing happily in the corner. “That’s Eileen. She makes every other resident origami flowers out of her napkins and makes sure to tell all of the guards how handsome they are, every time she sees them. She diffuses fights between other residents by getting them to talk about how they feel and is always the first to share her food when someone else is hungry. Seems nice, no?”

Bruce nodded. “I would say so.”

“She’s in here for killing six people and dissolving their bodies in acid.” The warden looked over at Bruce with his piercing gray stare. Bruce swallowed nervously, stomach turning. “That’s why Level Two residents are in the West Wing. Because one day, a guard could take kindly to one, and then they’d be back out on the streets, putting even more civilians in danger.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. Suddenly, Eileen’s dancing didn’t look nearly as innocent.

The warden turned away from the bars. “Let’s continue to the athletic center.” They left the dining hall behind, taking a right down another tiled hallway. “Our athletic center has been out of commission for a few years now, but it is about time for Level Two residents to go to their cells and Level One residents to go to their dining hall. It would be unwise for us to be wandering the halls during a transfer time.”

“How many transfer times are there per day?” Bruce asked. “It doesn’t seem as if there are many places for the inmates to go.”

“An excellent question,” Dr. Wilberson acknowledged. “Level Two residents have breakfast at 7:15 every morning and go back to their cells at 8:00, when Level One residents go to their breakfast. They go back to their cells at 9:00. Residents stay in their cells until their respective lunchtimes, at 10:45 or 12:00, depending on the security level. They then have the choice to go to their cells or the common room for the next hour. They then go back to their cells until the next morning, and will eat dinner in their cells at 8:00.” The warden chuckled. “Maybe a little more in-depth answer than you wanted, but everything here must be rigidly structured to avoid any mishaps. The East Wing’s schedule is identical, but it is broken up into Levels Three and Four.”

They had reached an old room with a worn out sign reading  _ Athletic Center _ . Dr. Wilberson opened the door and entered, flicking the lights on to illuminate a dusty rack of weights. A solitary bench press was in the center of the room and a chin-up bar was hanging from the ceiling in the corner.

“We’ll only have to be here for about five minutes, I presume,” Dr. Wilberson said. “Tell me your thoughts, Bruce. How do you feel thus far?”

Bruce took a breath. He paused, thinking about his words. “I think that there are a lot of very bad people here, but I also think that every bad person has something that made them that way. These are just people who need help. They are people first, no matter what they’ve done.”

“I admire you for being able to say that,” the warden said. “I know many people who would look in here and see nothing but a loony bin filled with psychotic murderers. Even I used to think that.”

Voices drifted in from the hallway, incoherent babbling reaching Bruce’s ears. He assumed it was the Level Two residents going back to their cells. “Who are some of the more notable residents here?” Bruce asked.

Dr. Wilberson looked up at the ceiling, squinting in concentration. “There aren’t as many currently, but we’ve housed Penguin, The Riddler, Pyg, Hugo Strange, Nathaniel Barnes, and… there’s someone who I’m forgetting, I can tell. Anyone that makes it on the news comes straight here.”

The voices faded out of the hallway, and Dr. Wilberson opened the door. “Come, let’s go to Dining Hall B.” Bruce straightened his shoulders as they walked, feeling as if he was walking into the belly of some giant beast. The sounds of the second dining hall weren’t nearly as loud as the first, but they were much darker. Bruce could hear quiet, calm conversations, and the sound of someone whimpering in pain. There was a short burst of laughter, then silence.

They turned around the corner to be meeted with a more disturbing scene than Bruce could have ever imagined. The table set up was identical, but no one was dancing, no one was rocking back and forth. Every inmate seemed perfectly lucid as they ate their food. One lay curled up on the floor, blood trickling from a broken nose. His quiet moans were ignored by everyone, even the guards.

“Someone needs to go help him!” Bruce exclaimed. “His nose is broken, he needs a doctor.”

Dr. Wilberson opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a slow, raspy laugh from within the dining hall.

“I don’t believe it!” the voice exclaimed sarcastically. It was familiar, but Bruce couldn’t quite place where he had heard it before. “Bruce Wayne, coming to Arkham to save the day.”

Bruce peered into the crowd of now-frozen striped jumpsuits, trying to spot the speaker. “Who’s talking?” he asked shortly.

“I’m insulted, pal,” the voice mocked. A figure stood up towards the back of the room The man was tall, with brilliant red hair and brutal scars around his face. He burst out laughing, a wicked, chaotic laugh that had haunted Bruce’s nightmares for years. “We used to be best friends!”

Bruce let out a slow, incredulous breath.

It was Jerome Valeska.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry this is so short it's like midnight right now so i kinda rushed to get the first chapter out... anyways this is pretty much a disaster with minimal editing/proofreading so yeah let me know what you think! i'm hoping to have the next chapter out in the next two days so we'll see how that goes:)


	2. Selina Kyle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce returns to Wayne Manor after his tour of Arkham and enjoys his last night before becoming an asylum guard

Back in the warden’s office, Bruce was still shaken by the encounter in the second dining hall. The rest of the tour had been uneventful, but he couldn’t stop hearing that maniacal laugh echo through his head. It had been years since Bruce had thought about Jerome, as he had assumed that he would never have to see the crazed killer again. Oh, how he wished he had been right.

“So, Bruce,” the warden said. “I am aware of your history with Jerome Valeska, and I don’t want you to take this job if your past will interfere with your ability to keep the residents of the asylum safe.”

Bruce tilted his chin up. “Jerome Valeska doesn’t scare me. He can’t influence my decisions anymore. I’ll take the job.”

The warden smiled. “Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow morning to start your training.”

The two men stood and shook each other’s hands. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Bruce said respectfully.

“Of course,” Dr. Wilberson replied. “I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

With that, Bruce left the asylum, head swimming with all that he had seen. He still didn’t quite know why he had decided to apply for a job at Arkham. It was reckless and stupid, but there was something calling him to the asylum. He just didn’t know what that something was.

Bruce blinked, clearing his thoughts. Alfred was waiting in the Rolls-Royce, which was idling smoothly outside the Arkham gates. The two guards pushed open the wrought iron gates for Bruce, who nodded at them as he left the grounds. He pulled open the passenger side door and sat down heavily on the smooth leather seat.

“So, how’d it go?” Alfred asked. He shifted the car into reverse, slowly turning it around on the gravel driveway.

Bruce sighed. “I saw Jerome Valeska.”

Alfred nodded. “Right. I suppose he was all too happy about that.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “He was.”

“Well, that nutcase is good and locked up, so you won’t have to worry about him anymore,” Alfred said briskly.

“That’s what I told the warden,” Bruce explained. “But I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“And why do you think that?” Alfred asked. The car bounced violently as the driveway turned from gravel to pavement.

“Because he’s smart and he’s crazy,” Bruce said. “He could escape if he wanted to, and I have no idea what he would want to do to me. He did try to kill me twice.”

“And both times he lost.” Alfred looked over at Bruce kindly. “He can’t hurt you.”

Bruce took a deep breath. “You’re right. And I already told them I’d start tomorrow.”

“Steady on, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “I suppose you’ll be meeting Miss Kyle tonight?”

“Yes, I will.” Bruce shifted uncomfortably.

“Right, then.” Bruce could see Alfred trying not to smile. “I shall make myself scarce until tomorrow morning.”

Bruce could feel his face getting warm. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred simply nodded, and they spent the rest of the ride in silence. Wayne Manor was a ways outside of Gotham, so it took about twenty minutes to drive from Arkham to the mansion which Bruce called home. Alfred pulled the Rolls-Royce around the house into the garage, next to Bruce’s other three cars. He had a Bentley, a Porsche, and his dad’s old BMW. It was excessive, Bruce knew, but he loved all of the cars and couldn’t bear to part with any of them.

He and Alfred got out of the car together, exiting the garage and setting the alarm on the door. The garage was detached from the house, but had a path to the back door that led into the kitchen. Bruce led the way into the manor, where he hung the car keys on the wall next to the door.

“Care for a sandwich before I go?” Alfred asked as they entered the kitchen.

“No, that’s alright, Alfred,” Bruce responded. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Very well, Master Bruce.” Alfred picked up the keys to the BMW. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Call if you need anything.”

Bruce nodded. “Thank you, Alfred.”

The older man left out of the same door they entered through, into the dimming light. Bruce sat down at the kitchen table, grabbing an apple and opening his mouth to take a bite.

“You still need a better security system,” a light voice said from the stairs. Bruce turned around, seeing a young woman with curly hair and narrow eyes lounging on the staircase.

Bruce smiled. “Selina.”

“Sorry, I know I’m early, but I was hungry and you have a _lot_ of food,” she said, gesturing at the wall of pantries. “How did the interview go?”

Bruce shrugged. “Could have been better. I got the job, though, so I have to go in tomorrow morning to start working.”

“Wow,” Selina said. “That was fast. How were all the loonies?”

“Jerome Valeska was there,” Bruce said.

Selina snorted. “Of course he was. At least you’ll never have a boring day at work.”

“That’s a good point,” Bruce laughed. “But I’ve talked about Jerome enough today. Let’s talk about something else.”

Selina hopped off of the stairs and came to sit next to him. She laid one of her hands on his thighs, walking her fingers slowly upwards. “The thing is,” she said slowly. “We don’t have to talk at all.”

Bruce stilled, looking into her green and hazel eyes. She leaned in, hand sliding farther up his thigh. They were breathing the same air, suspended only inches apart. Time froze. He couldn’t feel his heart beat, couldn’t tell if he had been looking at her for seconds or hours. He had been swallowed by her emerald eyes.

Selina leaned in even closer, so close that he could feel his lips hovering against his. "That doesn't mean we have to be quiet."

And then he was kissing her. Once, twice, until Bruce had a taste and knew he would never have enough. He was everywhere; around her waist, over her arms, knotted in her hair, kissing her with a passion that left her breathless. Her hands found their way under his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer. He could get drunk off of the smell of her perfume. It enveloped him, and it didn’t matter that his mouth was already on hers, he wanted _more_. A noise slipped out from between her lips, it might have been his name, might have been a plea, might have been both, but he understood. His hands wrapped around the backs of her thighs and lifted her into the air, where she draped her legs around his hips. He gently placed her on the smooth wooden countertop.

Slowly, Selina arched her back, pulling off her loose green shirt to reveal a black lace bra. She pulled her pants down, hips moving in lazy circles as she exposed her long, bare legs. Bruce knew his gaze was ravenous as his eyes traveled over her body, tracking every movement. His eyes traveled lower. Lower. And when he finally reached the apex of her thighs and his mouth was parted with desire, Selina said to him, “Take off your damn clothes.”

Bruce pulled his shirt off over his head, and now it was Selina’s turn to stare. His rippling chest moved in time to her own breaths, and he stood up to pull off his pants. When he was left in nothing but his underwear, he picked Selina up off the table, hands gripping the backs of her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, letting his lips travel down her jaw, her neck. He carried her to the couch, where she laid down underneath him, hands tracing smooth circles against the muscles of his back.

“Your butler’s not home, right?” Selina murmured.

Bruce nodded, tracing her jawline with his lips. “He’s gone,” he whispered. “So we can be as loud as we want.”

Selina’s eyes fixed him with a playful intensity that made him breathless. “Oh, we will be.” She slipped her hand into the waistband of his underwear. “And that’s a promise.”

It wasn't long before Bruce had forgotten all about Arkham, about Jerome, and about his new job. There was only Selina. His world had shrunk down to the feeling of her body on his, to the lips that were soft and warm against his own. Time dissolved as they lay intertwined across the plush couches of the manor. The quiet eyes of the old paintings were the only witness to their union, the passion laid bare within the ancient house.

“Bruce,” Selina moaned, gasping for breath. “Don’t stop.”

Bruce eyed her throat, her flawless body, and her face that was suspended inches from his. And he wondered if it was possible to want someone so badly you could die from it. If it were possible to desire someone so much that time and distance and death were of no matter. “I am not going to stop for a long, long, time.”

Selina inhaled, crystalline eyes glittering.

Their bodies became one, rippling like a northern river, and when Selina moaned his name into the halls, Bruce hoped that the whole world would hear it and know that there was no one else but her.

No one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a lot of fun to write:) hope you enjoyed the first batcat scene before it all goes to shit! next chapter will be up in a few days- it's going to be focused on bruce and jerome...
> 
> also i've decided to keep the chapters short but have more of them and update more often since i'm super busy all the time


	3. Lay of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce experiences his first day working at Arkham and discovers that there is much more corruption than he originally expected... and everything wrong with the asylum seems to revolve around a certain psycho redhead that won't leave Bruce alone.

The next morning, Bruce awoke to an empty bed and a stomach filled with nerves. He rolled over to find that the sun hadn’t even risen yet. The old clock on his wall read 4:30 AM.

“Rise and shine, Master B!” Alfred yelled from the hallway. “Work starts in an hour!”

“Be right out,” Bruce mumbled. He kicked the covers off of himself, wincing at the cool air that washed over his body. Slowly, he dragged himself out of bed, throwing on black jeans and his leather jacket before walking down to the kitchen.

Alfred was washing his hands in the sink when Bruce entered the room. He turned around, drying his hands with a blue and white dish towel. “Good morning, Bruce,” he said cheerfully. “You look like hell.”  
“How are you even awake?’ Bruce groaned, slumping into one of the stools. “I need a coffee.”

“One step ahead of you there, mate,” Alfred said, sliding a steaming mug across the table. “Eggs are in the pan, they should be done in a minute.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Alfred.” Bruce took a long drink of the coffee, the bitter liquid burning his throat.

Alfred began to scoop the scrambled eggs onto two plates, the scent making Bruce’s stomach rumble. “Are you nervous about today?”

“A little,” Bruce responded. He grabbed forks from the drawer next to him, placing them out on the table. “I’m more worried about Jerome than anything.”

Alfred set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him. “He’s locked up. There’s nothing he can do to you in there.”

“I know.” Bruce took a bite of food. “But I’m still worried.”

Alfred nodded. “And you’d be stupid not to be. But just focused on learning the lay of the land before you try to take on Valeska, at least for now.”

“I will,” Bruce responded. “For now.”

Alfred laughed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Bruce chuckled as well, and they finished the rest of their breakfasts in silence.

The ride to Arkham was mostly uneventful, as Bruce sat, feeling his hands sweat and his heart pound. Alfred didn’t speak, which Bruce appreciated. He was too anxious to talk. The sun was just rising as they crested the hill above the asylum. The early morning light made the massive stone building seem to glow, and it would have been a pretty sight if not for the wrought-iron fence and barbed wire surrounding the property. The gravel crunched under the wheels of the car as Alfred pulled it up to the main gate. He unrolled the window.

“Name and purpose of visit,” the security guard ordered tiredly. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Bruce Wayne,” Bruce said. “It’s my first day working here.”

The security guard hardly looked inside the car as he buzzed them through.

Alfred pulled up to the front door and shifted the car into park. “Alright, Master B, I will be back at 8:30 to pick you up.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce said.

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder. “Have a good first day.”

Bruce smiled worriedly as he climbed out of the car. He had never been more disappointed to hear the sound of th Rolls-Royce pulling away as he was then. But rather then let himself panic any more, he walked inside. The atrium was empty, save for one man leaning against the security desk with a cup of coffee.

“Are you Bruce Wayne?” the man asked.

“Yes, I am,” Bruce answered.

The man nodded. “I’m Sergeant Danvers, and I am going to be your commanding officer for the duration of your service here.” He held up a folded stack of clothes. “This is your uniform, which you can change into in the locker room. Follow me.”

He dropped the clothes into Bruce’s hands and immediately turned away, striding across the atrium to a hallway the warden hadn’t shown Bruce. Bruce got the sense that the sergeant was a no-nonsense kind of person, and probably wouldn’t take kindly to too many questions. So Bruce kept his mouth shut, at least for the time being.

“This is the guard’s wing,” Sergeant Danvers announced. “We have locker rooms, a kitchen/lunch room, and a couple of cots for those who get stuck on double shifts. We normally keep some pizza or sandwiches or something around so you won’t have to bring lunch every day, unless you want to.” He pushed a door on his right open, flipping the lights on inside. “Locker room,” he said shortly. “Get changed, use any locker you want.”

Bruce nodded. “Thank you.” He walked inside, finding it empty. He found an empty locker and quickly changed into the black pants and white button up shirt. The shirt already had his name pinned to it, and the pants had a small badge that read  _ Gotham City Correctional Department. _ He shoved his jeans and jacket into the locker and shut the door, walking back outside to find Sergeant Danvers leaning against the wall.

“Alright, let’s get you your kit,” Danvers said. He pushed himself up to a standing position and began to walk to the back of the short hallway. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” the sergeant said, pulling a keychain out of his pocket.

“I’m just listening,” Bruce said. “Don’t want to miss anything important.”

Sergeant Danvers nodded, but didn’t press the issue further. His keys jangled as he unlocked the last door in the hallway, which turned out to be a storage closet. One wall was loaded with guns, all of which were already loaded. The other walls had tasers, batons, handcuffs, chains, pepper spray, gas masks, and something that looked suspiciously like a muzzle.

“Most of this is for emergencies,” the sergeant said, waving a hand airily. “On an average shift, you should only have pepper spray, a baton, a taser, and handcuffs. Lightweight stuff.”

As he spoke, he started handing the objects to Bruce, who clipped them to his belt. “Do guards carry guns?” Bruce asked. “Handguns, not  _ those _ ,” he said, referring to the large rifles hanging next to him.

“Only me and the three most senior officers,” Sergeant Danvers responded, clipping a fresh can of pepper spray to his own belt. “Giving every officer a gun comes with the risk of inmates being able to steal one and use it on either themselves or others.”

Bruce nodded, and the sergeant led him out of the room and locked the door behind them. “Every morning at 5:30, all of the officers meet in the lunch room to discuss duties for the day. That’s in about five minutes, so I’ll take the time to explain everything briefly to you beforehand. I assume the warden already told you about the transfer schedule, so that will proceed as normal this morning. We’re doing cell check this afternoon, so the inmates will have their recreation time cut in half. Cell check happens monthly, but we’ve added an extra one in today since a Level Two inmate got stabbed yesterday night.”

Bruce’s stomach sank at how casually Sergeant Danvers said that. “Did they survive?”

“No. But the killer got put in isolation for the next month, so that problem should be taken care of.”

“Ah,” Bruce said.

“Come,” Sergeant Danvers said, gesturing him towards the lunchroom. “It’s about time for morning huddle.”

Bruce swallowed nervously and followed him into the room.

There were about fifteen guards inside, most of whom looked completely fatigued. They hardly even noticed him walk in.

“Listen up!” Sergeant Danvers shouted, making the assembled officers jump. “We have a new officer on deck- Officer Wayne. Everyone give him a hand.”

There was a smattering of claps from the assembled officers, most of whom eyed him with a mixture of pity and distrust. There was a group that looked so exhausted they could hardly keep their eyes open. Bruce smiled politely at them and took a seat.

“Today is a big day,” Sergeant Danvers announced. “We’re going to be doing cell checks for the Level One residents, including our Reddies. That means that all officers need to be armed and aware for the duration of the checks, which could be up to an hour, maybe more.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce interjected. “What do you mean by ‘Reddie’?”

“All of our high security Level One residents have red cell doors,” the sergeant explained. “We tend to check them fifteen minutes apart, so you’ll be there for all of them. I want every new officer to get a sense for what they’re up against.”

“Yes, sir,” Bruce responded.

“Alright, everyone,” Sergeant Danvers said forcefully. “Let’s put some pep in our steps, breakfast transfer is in fifteen minutes. Everyone, get to your stations to start bringing people to the dining hall. Wayne, you’re with Namara. She’ll show you the ropes. Chop, chop, let’s go!”

The officers all slowly got to their feet, stretching and yawning. One of them, a young woman with long box braids, made her way over to him.

“The name’s Namara,” she said shortly, sticking out her hand. “You’re partnered up with me for the day.” Her dark brown eyes pierced his with a penetrating intensity that left him feeling quite exposed.

Bruce shook her hand. “Pleasure to work with you.”

Namara laughed humorlessly. “You say that now,” she said. “We’ll see how long that sticks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce asked.”

Namara pulled her braids back into a ponytail. “It’s cell check day. No one lasts long on cell check day.”

And with that, she led him away into the long, winding halls of the asylum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry that i haven't uploaded in so long!! i was in season for my hockey team and i hardly had time to write, but i promise i'll try to be more productive! anyways, let me know what you think of this so far, it would be great to hear your opinions/feedback:)


	4. Bleeding Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce learns the ugly truth of what happens to guards in the asylum, and Jerome starts to wreak a little more havoc. And on top of all of that, Bruce begins to suspect that Namara is hiding quite a few secrets...

“Where are we going?” Bruce asked Namara, as she led him through a maze of fluorescent lights and metal doors.

“Cell block B,” she responded. “You and I are stationed there every morning to take the inmates to breakfast. It’s not hard, all you have to do is wait for the doors to open and yell at everyone until they do what you want. Maybe knock a few heads in the process.”

Bruce frowned. “What, beat up the inmates?”

Namara laughed at him. “You got a problem with that? These guys will eat you for lunch, given the chance. Violence is the only language they understand.”

“I don’t believe that’s true,” Bruce said shortly.

Namara stopped abruptly, spinning around and jabbing him in the chest with her finger. “Listen, Wayne, we all came in here thinking like that, but when you get someone like Jerome Valeska coming at you with a knife, there’s only one thing you can do. You pull out your baton, or your taser, or some other shit, and you lay them out cold.” She pointed behind her at the entrance to cell block B, dark eyes burning. “Those guys don’t have morals, so we can’t either. And trust me, I’ve been working here for years. I’ve tried everything to get through to them, but only one thing works, and that’s violence. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to get your head out of your ass and help me check their cells.”

Bruce just blinked, shocked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly.

“That’s more like it,” she said. “There are three rules you have to follow before we go in there. One: Never talk to the inmates about anything outside of your duties. They’ll try to get friendly with you so you’ll start letting things slide. Two: If you see  _ anything  _ in a cell that doesn’t look like it should be there, even if it’s just a toothbrush- take it out. Everything can be used as a weapon. Three: All Reddies are exempt from rule two.”

“What?” Bruce interrupted. “What do you mean, exempt?”

“I mean that if they wanted to, they could tear this asylum apart,” Namara said. “If we keep them happy, we keep the asylum from rioting. Simple politics.”

Bruce bit his cheek, not wanting to say anything that would make Namara even more frustrated than she already was.

“Now are you ready to get started?” she asked. He nodded.

She strode away, punching the button to release the gate to the cell block. It buzzed loudly, and Bruce hurried to follow her through. The door slid shut behind him with a dismal thud that made him shift uncomfortably.

Another loud clang made Bruce jump. Namara was banging her baton against one of the large metal cell doors, making Bruce’s ears ring. “Listen up!” she shouted. “It’s cell check time! We’re going through one by one until you all are done, and there’s no breakfast until that happens! So I’d suggest that you sit quiet and don’t cause any problems for the sake of all your fellow inmates.”

There was a chorus of grumbling and complaining from inside the cells. Someone swore loudly.

“Why can’t you just let us fucking live?” a man yelled from behind the door nearest Bruce. “You’ve already got us penned up like animals, what else could you want?”

“Shut it, Bronson!” Namara shouted back. “You know I found a shiv in your cell two weeks ago! Sounds to me like you’ve got something else you’re trying to hide.”

Bronson didn’t respond.

“Alright,” Namara said, turning to Bruce. “We’re going to do this one by one, starting with Bronson. You take the inmate out and watch them while I check for weapons, drugs, and other illicit stuff. You put them back in, we move on. Easy.”

Bruce nodded. Namara moved to Bronson’s door, rapping it a few times. “Wrists out so you can get cuffed,” she yelled.

Bronson obeyed, and Namara screwed his handcuffs on, tightening them until they cut into his skin. She unlocked the latches on his door, then pulled it open, sparks bouncing off the floor. Inside was a large bald man with beady eyes and tattoos snaking up his neck. “You look better every day, Namara,” he said, glittering eyes traveling down her body.

“Oh, really?” Namara said, stepping forwards. “That’s funny.” In one quick motion, she grabbed his shoulders and slammed her knee into his crotch. The man groaned, doubling over with a pained gasp. Bruce winced sympathetically. Namara shoved Bronson out into the hallway, where he stood hunched-over, trying to regain his breath.

Namara shot him a disdainful look, then proceeded to begin to tear apart Bronson’s cell, tossing his bedding and pillows to the floor. She found nothing of value, so they replaced the convict to his cell and moved on. The rest of the checks were unremarkable, as they found no contraband or dangerous items of any sort. That is, it was unremarkable until they reached the last cell.

“Time for the fun part,” Namara said, turning to the final door. It was painted a deep bloody red, with a large yellow warning sign above the cuff slot. The rest of the inmates had fallen curiously quiet, as if they were all waiting to see what would happen. The eerie quiet made the hair on the back of Bruce’s neck stand on end.

“That’s a little spooky,” Bruce said, gesturing to the now-silent cell block.

“They do that every time,” Namara said. “This is the most interesting their lives ever get.” She banged on the door a couple of times with her baton. “Hands at the door!” she yelled. “You know what to do.”

Seconds later, two crossed wrists appeared in the opening. Namara cuffed them tightly, then pushed them away from the door. She pushed her keycard through the security slot, then pushed in the passcode to unlock the door. A loud clunk echoed through the cell block, the sound of the locks deactivating within the door. Namara held her keycard in the slot, then looked back at Bruce.

“It takes two to open, I have to hold this while you get the door.”

Bruce nodded, planting his feet and pulling the door open. It ground against the floor, sending sparks jumping off of the tiles. A draft of cold air blew past his face, gently ruffling his hair. The door hit the wall with a thud that vibrated through his arms, and the inhabitant of the cell started clapping slowly. Bruce looked up, and his stomach sank.

“Well done, Brucie!” Jerome Valeska exclaimed. “This is a surprise indeed!” His mouth was stretched into a wide smile that made Bruce shudder.

“Shut up, Valeska,” Namara said. “We don’t have time for your shit right now.”

“Ow, I’m hurt,” Jerome said mockingly. He took a step towards Namara, who backed away. “Oh, come now, I thought you weren’t scared of anyone.”

Namara just glared at him. She seemed to hate him more than she hated Bruce, which was a feat in and of itself.

“You’re not still mad, are you?” Jerome said, unblinking eyes fixed on Namara’s face. “Please, it was years ago.” He took another step, smile sliding off his face.

“Back up, Jerome,” Bruce ordered. Namara seemed to be frozen, staring at Jerome with some incomprehensible combination of anger and fear. Jerome just kept watching Namara like a wolf watching a rabbit. Bruce snapped out his baton. “I said back up, Jerome.”

Jerome blinked, smile returning to his face. “Sorry, Brucie, just having a little fun. It can get so…  _ dull _ in here, locked up for all eternity.” He winked at Bruce. “But as I like to say, eternity is just a frame of mind.”

“You’re insane,” Bruce said. “Now step out of the cell and face the wall.”

Jerome shrugged his shoulders in a mock show of defense, and walked out of the cell. He leaned against the wall nonchalantly, facing Bruce. “Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to check my cell?”

Bruce just glared at him, then looked at Namara, who nodded him into the cell. Her hand was resting on her taser, fingers tapping it as if she was itching to use it on Jerome. Bruce figured this was a good time to be wanting to do that, so he stepped into the cell.

Inside, there was only a low bed, with a desk that had a small journal lying on top of it. There was a tin of pencils next to it, which Bruce picked up to inspect. They were all sharp enough to be considered weapons, but Bruce remembered Namara’s rules.  _ If they wanted to, they could tear this asylum apart. _ He set the pencils back down.

Bruce turned to the bed, pulling the blanket back and grabbing the pillow. Jerome started whistling out in the hallway.

“Be quiet, Valeska,” Namara snapped.

“Well  _ someone’s _ cranky,” Jerome responded, pretending to be hurt.

Bruce could hear Namara unclip her baton from her belt. “Keep talking and I swear to god I will shove this baton straight up your-“

“Hey!” Bruce interrupted loudly. He looked outside to see the end of Namara’s baton pressed under Jerome’s chin, holding his head against the wall. Jerome was unfazed, smiling down at her like nothing was wrong. “I’m almost done, can we all just calm down until that happens?”

Namara took a deep breath and forced herself to step back. “You’re on thin fucking ice, Valeska.”

All Jerome did was smile.

“Thank you,” Bruce muttered. He turned back to the bed and shook out the pillow, finding nothing concealed inside. He then patted down the mattress to also, surprisingly, find nothing. 

“It’s clear,” Bruce announced. He stepped back, tossing the pillow back on Jerome’s bed.

“Good,” Namara replied. “Now get your ass back inside.” She shoved Jerome towards Bruce, who was still standing inside the cell. Jerome stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself at the last moment. Bruce took a step to leave the cell, but faster than anyone could react, Jerome’s cuffs were on the floor and his knife was at Bruce’s throat.

Bruce froze, feeling the cool metal edge slice into the thin skin of his neck. “What are you doing, Jerome?” His voice was barely a whisper. Jerome chuckled, his voice a low purr in Bruce’s ear. Jerome’s free arm wrapped around Bruce’s chest, pulling Bruce tightly against him.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy that knows what he’s doing?” Jerome laughed.

“Drop the knife, Jerome,” Namara’s voice called. Bruce looked out and saw her reach for her radio.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Jerome said in a sing-song voice. He shifted the knife, sending a gentle trickle of blood spilling onto Bruce’s shirt. “Call for help and Brucie here dies.”

“Let him go,” Namara ordered. “You can’t seriously expect to get anything out of this.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Jerome responded. “Don’t worry, I’m not  _ that  _ insane. Yet.”

“Then what do you want?” Bruce asked, feeling the neck of his shirt slowly getting wetter.

Jerome leaned in until his lips were touching Bruce’s ear. “I just wanted to remind you what you’ve been missing out on.” His whisper was so low that Bruce was sure Namara couldn’t hear. “With all these years of me being locked up, I was afraid your life was getting a little…  _ dull. _ But don’t worry, I’ll spice things right back up! It’s good to see ya again, Brucie. Now, go change the world. Until I see you again.” Jerome shoved Bruce out of the cell, cackling loudly.

Bruce tripped, one hand immediately going to his throat and the other to the wall so he could catch himself. Namara grabbed him, pulling him away from the empty cell and putting herself in between him and Jerome.

“Drop the fucking knife,” Namara said angrily. “Drop the knife or I swear to god you won’t live to see tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay,” Jerome said, still hiccuping from laughter. Bruce heard a loud  _ clank _ as the knife hit the ground. He looked up and saw Namara holding her taser out, pointed at Jerome’s chest.

“Now kick it over.” Namara’s voice was cold, filled with barely suppressed rage. Jerome obeyed, and Namara stepped down on the blade to hold it in place.

“Alright,” Jerome said silkily. “Before anyone loses their heads, I’m going to back up and stand next to the wall so you can shut the door.”

“Good story,” Namara said shortly. And then she pulled the taser’s trigger.

Bruce could see every muscle in Jerome’s body lock, saw the pain contort his face as he dropped to his knees. A twisted smile flashed across his scarred mouth, but his eyes showed something in between shock and admiration. “Well.. done… Kamharida!” the ginger choked out, a distorted giggle in the back of his throat.

Namara’s eyes were burning with rage as she watched him struggle to breathe.

“Namara, stop,” Bruce said. She didn’t respond.

“Keep… going.” Jerome gagged. “Make… your mother… proud.”

Bruce grabbed her arm. “You’re killing him, you need to stop this!”

“He deserves it,” she whispered, eyes not leaving Jerome’s face. “He fucking deserves it.”

Jerome’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped the rest of the way to the ground, back arching in agony. Bruce could see his chest stop moving, the air being choked from his lungs.

“Namara, stop!” Bruce shouted. “Okay, maybe he does deserve to die, but you don’t deserve to have that on your conscience. Just let go of the taser and walk away. You’ve hurt him enough!”

Namara blinked, as if coming out of a stupor. Her fingers loosened, shutting off the flow of electricity to Jerome’s body. Jerome slumped to the floor, twitching.

Bruce placed his hand on Namara’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Don’t touch me,” she said quietly, not taking her eyes off of Jerome’s prone body.

“Namara, what was that?” Bruce asked.

She spun around, slapping his hand off of her shoulder. “I said, don’t touch me.” She began to stride away, but stopped after only a few steps. She turned back to face Bruce, eyes brimming with anger and tears. “I’m putting in for a partner transfer. Good luck on the job.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving Bruce alone in the abysmally empty cell block. He turned around, looking into Jerome’s cell. The young man was still unconscious, face looking surprisingly serene without the violent smile twisting his features. Asleep, he looked like the nineteen year old boy he was, a nineteen year old boy with a mess of cruel scars framing his face. He was a different person.

But it wasn’t enough to stop Bruce from closing the cell door, locking the still-twitching Jerome away.

And despite what had just happened, there was a small part of Bruce that felt guilty for leaving him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry that it's been so long since i've updated!! i just haven't really been that motivated to write until now, but i'm so glad i got back into the swing of things! i've got some good ideas for where i want the rest of this to go, and i can't wait to share it with you:) let me know what you think in the comments!


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